


Dazed and Confused

by withdiamonds



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-04
Updated: 2010-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withdiamonds/pseuds/withdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>MTYG, 2009</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dazed and Confused

_Been Dazed and Confused for so long it's not true.  
Wanted a woman, never bargained for you.  
Led Zepplin_

"Hey." Chris settles in on the couch at the back of the bus, being careful not to spill his drink. It's touch and go for a minute, but he manages to juggle both the drink and his phone successfully enough that he only ends up with a small splash of Jack and Coke on the afghan Justin's grandmother knitted. For Justin. For his birthday.

No biggie. Chris is only a little dead.

He peers at his reflection in the darkened bus window and scowls as menacingly as he can. He achieves his best _intimidating Timberlake_ look, the one he's been perfecting for years.

He nods at himself. It'll be fine.

"What the hell are you doing over there?" Joey's voice is in his ear, full of fond amusement, and Chris lets it warm him all over.

He scoots further under the afghan and tucks his phone more securely between his ear and his shoulder. "Spilling Jack on Justin's afghan," Chris says smugly.

"Did you say Jack, or jizz?" Joey asks.

"Pretty funny, Joey. Could be both before the night's over," Chris says, taking a sip. There's more Jack than Coke, just the way he likes it.

"You're a dead man," Joey says cheerfully.

"I'm not scared of Timberlake," Chris replies. He means it, too.

"You should be," Joey tells him. He's probably right.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, and Chris watches the passing cars, picking a set of headlights and tracking them as long as he can, until it's out of sight and he can focus on another set. It feels like he's being hypnotized, and he lets himself go with it, lets his brain blank out, and the noise fades away for a peaceful while.

Joey sighs. "I'm tired already."

"Wuss," Chris says without much conviction. He's tired, too, and he doesn't even have a new baby to juggle into their schedule. He clears his throat. "How are things?" He's proud of the way that comes out, all nonchalant, like he's only casually interested.

Not that he's fooling Joey any, and they both know it. "Chris. Things are fine, man. Briahna, she's amazing. She already has Lance completely wrapped around her finger. He's gonna spend all his money on toys, and then blame me when he has to file for bankruptcy, the dumbass motherfucker." Joey's talking just to be talking, avoiding what Chris is really asking, avoiding any and all issues. That's what Joey does.

Chris lets him. He's good at the easy out, too. Besides, Joey's right. Briahna is amazing.

Chris changes the subject. He's not sure which one of them he's letting off the hook, but he does it. "Did you manage to convince Lance to get rid of the rodent? Your bus smells, man."

"I don't think ferrets are rodents," Joey says. "But, yeah, although he tried to argue that Dirk smelled less offensive than Briahna's diapers." He snorts. "As if." Like his daughter's shit doesn't stink. Chris smiles at that. It's sweet, very Joey.

"He may have a point, dude," Chris says, falling effortlessly into the familiar rhythm of this kind of conversation. They're good at this.

"Hey, just because you changed a million diapers when your sisters were little and you're scarred for life -"

"I have a very sensitive nose as a result." Chris grins at his own reflection. He thinks he looks a little like a monkey. He crosses his eyes and sticks his tongue out. _You're such a lousy liar,_ he thinks, staring at himself. _You're so bad at this._

Joey chuckles warmly in Chris's ear. "If it was that sensitive, you couldn't live on a bus with Justin and JC."

"Mmm," says Chris. He's starting to feel buzzed from the Jack, kind of warm and fuzzy all over.

"You know," Joey says, "Robert Plant's in Philadelphia day after tomorrow. We could go."

"No shit?" Chris says, uncrossing his eyes. "Philly's only a couple of hours from Hershey." He stops, thinks a minute. "Wait, we _are_ going to Hershey, right? I'm lost already." He finishes his drink, letting the last sweet drops trickle down his throat, and sets the glass on the floor.

Joey laughs. "Yeah, you moron. We're going to Hershey. Concert tomorrow night, then we skip a day, then another show on Monday. Plant's playing Sunday night at the Electric Factory. We could go," he says again. He's serious, Chris can tell.

"Kelly -"

"Kel's not here, Chris." And, yeah, Chris knows how that works. It's what's worked for them for years, all three of them, only now, with Briahna, there's four of them. Someday it'll matter, he knows that. He sees Kelly and Joey as a forever thing, solid and enduring. They probably do, too, somewhere deep, but they're not ready to take that on yet.

"And besides, asshole, we're just going to a show. That's it." Joey says that like he really means it, but Chris knows full well he doesn't. He's not fooling anyone, either.

If they do this, it'll be more than just a show. It'll be a concert in the dark, the venue small and intimate, and they'll sit together at a table and drink, and Joey's voice will be in Chris's ear. He'll chuckle low and sing Led Zepplin just for Chris.

And Lonnie will go with them, maybe Tiny will, too. Tiny will drive, and Joey and Chris will sit in the back, at least a foot of space between them, not touching, or maybe Chris'll put his hand on the seat between them, oh, so casually, and after a while, Joey will slide his hand over and just the edges of their fingers will touch.

And that will be enough, enough to make Chris _want_. He'll stop thinking about Kelly, need itching under his skin, and he won't be able to sit still. Tiny will throw him dark looks in the rearview mirror and Lonnie'll glare over his shoulder and say, "Jesus Christ, Kirkpatrick, sit the fuck still."

Joey will laugh at him and move his hand away and Chris's fingers'll feel cold, even though he'll keep rubbing them with his other hand. They'll still be cold halfway through the concert, driving Chris crazy, and when Robert Plant starts singing about being dazed and confused, Chris will grab onto Joey's wrist and drag him to the bathroom, where he'll shove him into a stall, push him against the door, and reach up to kiss him, hard and deep and urgent.

Joey will kiss back, he'll push back, and Chris will find himself on his knees, sucking Joey's dick like his life depended on it. Or maybe it'll be Joey on his knees, looking up at Chris with that bone-melting smile as he plays with Chris's zipper, drawing things out, teasing, until there's a real danger that Chris will have to fucking kill him.

And just as Joey finishes him off, Lonnie will pound on the door and he'll glare at Chris when they finally stumble out, still flushed and breathing heavy, like it's all Chris's fault, when he knows better. He knows that when it comes to Joey, Chris can never resist, can never stay away. He can never say no. Lonnie knows it, Joey knows it, they all know it. Even Kelly knows it. Especially Kelly.

And they'll watch the rest of the concert, sitting too close together in public, and Lonnie will shake his head at them, but he won't make them move apart. He'll cover their asses and get them out of there unnoticed.

Tiny'll drive them back to Hershey in silence, and it'll be up to Chris to fill the car with sound, and he'll talk and joke until Joey kisses him just to shut him up.

"For fuck's sake, Chris," Joey'll say, laughing into his mouth, his breath warm on Chris's lips.

Chris will smirk triumphantly at Lonnie, and Lonnie will finally smile, because in spite of himself, he likes it when Chris is happy.

Chris can see it all, can see the way it will play out.

"Okay," Chris says into the phone. "Okay. We should go."


End file.
